


Snap

by Shuttering_Flutterflies



Series: Denial [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Broken Neck, Reader-Insert, Takes place just after the Colonel shoots the player, The ending is kind of weak I didn't know how to finish it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 17:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12512712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shuttering_Flutterflies/pseuds/Shuttering_Flutterflies
Summary: Their bones are broken and there's betrayal in their eyes and no matter how hard I try I can't get it out





	Snap

All it takes is one slip of his finger and Y/N stumbles back, hands automatically going to the hole in their gut, the hole his gun created. He watches in horror as they stare at the blood coating their hands, eyes glazed over in shock, before looking back up at him.

  
The Colonel was a lot of things, he was loud, overeager and emotional, but the sight of betrayal and sorrow in his last friends eyes as they stared at him tore deep into his heart. Frantic to help, to do anything to erase that haunting stare, he started forwards, desperately reaching out to grab them, even has they fell backwards over the railing.

  
"It was an accident, I swear!"

  
The desperate yell tore his way from his throat as he watched them fall, almost in slow motion, still staring at him with a helpless sadness in their eyes, down until they hit the floor with a loud snap that made him feel sick to his stomach.

  
There bloodied hands have barely fallen to the ground before he's moving, running down the stairs and falling to his knees beside the body, eyes wide and flat, neck bent at an unnatural angle.

  
"Y/N, can you hear me?" he asked softly, afraid of spooking them. "I'm not going to hurt you, I swear."

  
No response.

  
He took a deep breath to steady himself and reached over, tilting their head to face him. They were cold and stiff. That didn't mean they were _dead,_ though! Lots of living people were cold and there was a window open somewhere, he could feel the draft. That must be it, never mind their lack of response to his touches, the fact that they weren't breathing. They had to be okay.

  
He lifted their limp hand up, ignoring how shaky his hands were and gently checked for a pulse, the last sign of evidence that he wasn't alone, he wasn't a murderer, he -

  
There was no pulse.

  
Y/N was dead and he had killed them. Now he was alone in his big empty house and the Detective, currently out for his blood. Let him come. The Colonel really was a murderer. He'd most likely killed Mark as well and not even had the respect to care that he was dead...

  
What would Mark say if he could see one of his oldest friends sitting beside his other friend after killing them? Damien and Celine gone, most likely dead, the Colonel the only one left.

  
There was blood on his jacket. The air stank of blood and pain and the Colonel ripped his jacket off and threw it across the room in disgust. Suddenly wanting to be away from the corpse, he moved across the room to sit in it and sank down on to the soft cushion, burying his face in his hands.

  
Mark. Damien. Celine. Y/N. All of them were dead. He'd go to their funerals, look their families in their eyes, knowing he was the reason they were mourning. Then again, Mark, Damien and Celine were very distant from their families. So instead of just regretting the passing of their relative, their families would also mourn the missed chance for reconciliation with their families.

  
All because of him.

  
There would only be one body. He'd never met Y/N before today, but Mark had spoken about them a lot. From what he'd heard they had been close to their family, so it was only fitting that that family, at least, had closure.

  
What was the thinking? He wouldn't be at the funerals. He'd be in prison or the Detective would have put a bullet through his brain. Where _was_ the Detective anyway? Surely he had heard the gunshot, Y/N's neck snapping?

  
Speaking of Y/N... He snuck a look at the corpse. They were staring blankly ahead, both hands by their side. Their clothes were stained in blood and blood trickled slowly from their mouth. It was a sad sight.

  
The Colonel didn't make friends easily. He grew attached to people quickly, but his loudness and his eccentricities scared them away quickly. Yet, he'd consider Y/N a friend, or at least someone who didn't constantly look at him in terror, like most other people. He already knew a lot about them, the District Attorney that Mark had befriended, given how much Mark had spoken about them. They were quiet and smart, helpful and a complete party animal when drunk enough. He'd hoped that he could befriend them, and there they lay, dead at his hands.

  
Damien had never felt the same way. He'd always seemed annoyed whenever Mark brought them up, almost jealous. Fancy that! Damien jealous of Mark. However, Mark had apparently managed to sell Damien on the idea of inviting Y/N a few months ago. William didn't know how and didn't care to find out. His friends secrets were theirs to keep.

  
William? That was odd, using his first name instead of his title. He could only imagine that he had came to the conclusion that he didn't deserve his title anymore. He had killed Mark. He had killed Y/N. Damien and Celine were both gone because of him. That was no way for a colonel to act.

  
He... he could hear a strange noise, a crunch. Startled, he looked over to see Y/N, alive and slowly getting to their feet. They were looking at him nervously and he gently holds out a hand as they stand up.

  
"No! It's okay!" he says, feeling relief begin to bubble up in his chest. They were okay! He hadn't killed them, he... he...

  
It clicked into place. It was a joke! Of course! Mark and Damien, dead? That wasn't possible! _Celine_ , dead? Unthinkable. Those three, always playing jokes on him, even if this one had been mean spirited. No wonder Y/N had given up on it. All the guilt and anguish he had felt? It was all a joke! Just wait until he got a hold of those three!

* * *

  
Y/N watched in silence as the Colonel stumbled off, calling desperately for his friends. They knew where Damien and Celine were, but refrained from speaking. Telling the Colonel what had happened, what Mark had done would only hurt him further.

  
On autopilot they moved over to the mirror, picked up Damiens stick with hands no longer their own and the world glitched and they felt everything shift, the colours around them, their body, the world they lived in.

  
As Celine and Damien forced Y/N into the mirror, the fabric of reality cracked for a moment. Miles away, Mark shuddered with Damiens body. Upstairs, the Colonel barely gave it a moment of hesitation before continuing his search. The Groundskeeper shook his head in sympathy, and the Detective felt his anger at the Colonel grow as Damien's rage effected him.

  
Y/N watched Damien and Celine leave in stunned silence completely frozen, arm still holding on to an imaginary cane. It ached but they were forced to keep it up. They were frozen solid in the shape of their betrayal.

  
Soon, the Colonel passed by, still looking for his friends. He'd ran into Damien, but now Y/N had vanished as well. He didn't understand why they'd deserted him, unless they really hated him.

  
Something nagged in the back of his head, that they had every right to hate him and he ignored it. He didn't need them. He'd make new friends. He'd make himself better and show the three of them.

  
For a second, is reflection shifted, regarded him with sad eyes that felt too familiar to him. He shuddered and turned away, leaving the cursed mansion behind.

 

...

**Colonel, if you're hearing this, _y̽́͒̎̈ͬ͒̄ͤ̚͢͝͏͏̤̰̟͜ơ̡̄̄ͧ̈̄͟҉̟̠̳̪͙u̢ͤͭ̈́̃ͫ͐̏ͣ̑̀҉͍͕̠͎̞̜̫͈̦̟̻̭̳̮̘͢'̡̻͔̝͙̞͈͙̗̜̯̺̤̯̮͈̯͑̅̔ͭͤ̎̋̃͜͟d̴̷̨̲̥̟̯̦͔̭̮̼̹̤͈͙͎̙̖ͤ̒ͯ̓ͤ̔̾̾́̎̉̄ͤ͘ ̢͉͍̮̟̇́ͫ͂ͨͨ́ͨͩ͋̀͌̕͡͡b̢͎͎̲̺̦͉͎̰̮͕ͪͣͦ͆ͨ͂ͬ̚ể̷̻̗̥̥̮̼͙̝͉̜̖̫̞̭̲̀͒ͫ̾ͤ͊͝t̵̛͈̦͈̗͕̻ͥ̓͛̐̍ͤͭͧ̊̾ͯ͗͊̋͂̈̀t̵̄̈́͋̍̂̄ͥ͌ͩ͗̐̐͌͂ͭͧ͏̥̮̺̼͖̤̜̯͚̣̝͍̺͜͢ę̶̵̓́̊̾̍ͪ̃̑̒͂͂̑͠͏̱͈̠͇̙͕͙̤̥̥͍͍̦̦ͅr̡̜̞̙̼̜̼̮̙̼͔̩̝͙̘̮ͩͮ̍́͘͠ ̶̊̽͐̉͊͞҉̮̖͈̤̞̩̭̭̳̗͍̯r̡̢̝͈͉̱̙̐́̍͐̾̅ͩͬͨ͐̋̂͊ͭ͟͜͠ú̷̢̠͙̺͔̥̜͓̬̻̫͎̺̺̘̺̑̅ͪͤ̌̋͑̅̃͛̈͊͐ͪnͬ̂ͫ͑ͥ̌ͭ͛ͬ̑̀̈́ͩ̃҉̶͟҉̘̼̘͎̣̖̻̥̱͉̮͈̟̩̘̳͙_**


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